Hi Nora,
Hey, happy birthday! You are 11. ELEVEN!
(What kind of mother sits and marvels at the age her child is turning every single year, like the passage of time isn’t a constant and, well, trackable thing? Your mother, that’s who. Get used to it, kid. Among the plethora of things that ain’t my forte, emotional counting is among the worst.)
This blog post feels different than any I’ve written in this space in the entirety of its 12 years. Why? Okay, pal, settle in. Let me take you back a bit.
It was a gorgeous fall morning in October of 2009…
No, I’m kidding. Not that far back.
It was the spring of 2020…
Can you squint into the recesses of your brain and bring up clear images of that time? (If not, nary a court in the land would blame you- it was, and continues to be, a bonkers time for the brain.) Anyway, back then you were in the thick of your remote learning with your classmates, logging into Google Classroom like a boss and emailing your friends with a deftness (and the proper grammar!) that eludes citizens thrice your age. It dawned on you one morning, however, that once you left the Chicago Public School system, you’d lose access to your account and thus your Gmail.
“How am I going to email with my friends?”
So Nora, even though it hadn’t been in my plans until you were older, I let you in on a little secret.
I’d been emailing photos and notes and short videos to a Gmail account that I had set up as soon as I met you. Over the years I had treated it like a digital scrapbook of the mundane, of the “non-milestones” that make up the blur of childhood. The sweet moments, the hilarious turns of phrase, the occasionally boring times when we would sprawl on the floor together and I’d think “This, someday she’s going to want to know that we had moments like this.”
And when I told you about this email account, I also granted you (conditional!) access.
And when I told you about this email account, I swear you aged a decade in my eyes.
Because now all of those things I penned and sent into the ether for “someday” were getting responded to in real time. (The first time I sent a short note and received an “aw, thanks” email, I got a fairly big jolt. Um, baby Nora, when did you learn to connect to wifi? After teething/before preschool?)
I had figured that you’d mainly use the new account to keep in touch with fam and friends, but no, you went deep into the archives. Soon you were forwarding me video clips of you pushing baby Suzy in a swing, reminding me of weirdly wonderful stories you used to tell (oh, your rendition of “Goodnight, Moon” is a real moneymaker), and marveling at the people and places and things that made up your earliest moments.
You started sending me new stuff, too.
Stories you were writing- really, really good stories- ones that you had uploaded for edits onto Google Drive(!!), song clips you had been building for music class, and notes just to say hi. (Those are among my absolute favorites.)
So when I gifted you this email account, you gave me a gift as well- you let me have a glimpse into the life and personality (and, sure, email stylings) of Grownup Nora.
And it’s awesome. Because you’re awesome. You are, at the fine age of eleven, empathetic, kind, silly, deeply funny, occasionally sardonic, creative as the day is long, and genuinely one of my favorite people in the history of the world.
Okay, we’ve established that you’re a pretty grand person, right? So then what, exactly, makes this blog post different for me?
Simple.
You’re reading it.
These blog posts, long “in the vault” for Future You are actually now being read and understood (and commented on), much in the same way that you’re really reading those emails and sharing info and conversing with the world. You’re big, Nora. My grownup kid.
(Did I mention how it’s your birthday and today you’re eleven?)
Guess what?
Now it’s time to let me take you back a bit to a gorgeous fall morning in October of 2009.
I was walking towards the main entrance of Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago, clutching your Dad’s arm while he clutched my overloaded duffel. (Who even knows what I brought with me in that thing? Pretty sure I packed makeup. Definitely folded and toted a pair of overalls for you. Overalls. For a newborn. I’m surprised they even let me bring you home. Overalls?!)
We were excited. We were almost comatose with what-ifs.
We were pretty certain we had no idea what we were doing.
Then the door was opened for me by a gracious doorman in a hat and long coat. He beamed broadly at me.
“Happy birthday, Mom!”
And, Nora, I bawled. (With joy, of course. I know that after eleven years with me, you know the difference.)
I cried because I knew every single thing in my life was about to change, and I knew it was about to change in the way I had always dreamed it would change. And in that moment I was grateful and ready and just so darned thrilled to meet you.
(You didn’t let me down, either. You were a really nice person to meet, even back then.)
I think we’ve made a good team ever since, even when we disagree, and especially when things aren’t easy. You were the kid who agreed to the big ol’ move the quickest, but I knew you were the kid who felt the losses and the worries the deepest. As my firstborn, you can’t help but people-please, and sometimes my heart hurts for your stoicism, and I have to practically beg you to unload your (apologetic!) fears onto me.
I hope you always trust me as a soft landing space.
I hope you always know that your feelings- all of them- are valid and worthy of shouting aloud.
And I hope you always know how deeply sorry I was to have put you in those overalls right after you were born. Because it looked ridiculous. (Overalls.)
Happy birthday, Nora, I love you so.
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